


Matrimonium

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bedannibal in Argentina, F/M, Post Season 3, getting married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 11:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13657752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “To legalize our union?” her mind keeps repeating the remark, searching for the hidden meaning, her coffee suddenly forgotten.“Yes, a marriage,” he clarifies it, seeing her confused gaze.





	Matrimonium

She is certain she had misheard him. The cup in her hand pauses above the table as she watches him, carefully analysing his words.

He mentioned it as if in passing while they were enjoying their breakfast in the garden. The Argentinian summer had settled in with a fervour of colours, keeping the foliage blooming and the air filled with fragrance. The warm breeze ruffled the tree leaves in a playful manner, along with Hannibal’s hair and the cooling shade of the crown kept his face half shadowed, making it hard for her to read his expression as the suggestion left his lips and lingered, waiting, in the space between them.

“To legalize our union?” her mind keeps repeating the remark, searching for the hidden meaning, her coffee suddenly forgotten.

“Yes, a marriage,” he clarifies it, seeing her confused gaze. He takes a sip of his own coffee, black and hot; the growing heat does not seem to bother him in the slightest. The steam from the cup clouds his face further, amplifying the surreal sensation of perplexity now enveloping her sharp senses.

“Under what name?” she asks, her thoughts wondering to the new sets of passports all ready and packed away, meant to ensure their low-risk journey to Asia and then back to Europe. She suspects this to be a further guarantee of their safety.

“Our own names,” he responds, almost timidly now, perhaps taking her wonderment as a sign of refusal.

Bedelia places her cup on the saucer at last, the soft clink of china marks the moment of her full understanding. The sun sneaks a look through the leaves and the haze in her mind disperses along with the shade. She tilts her head to one side, as always when she is presented with a questionable idea. Her mind scrutinises the proposal. She has never suspected Hannibal to hold any value to a piece of paper. No one knows better than him how easily documents can be procured and how little they might mean. A familiar gesture of her hand follows, fingers running through her hair as she tosses her locks over her shoulder.

“Don’t you think it is a tad _redundant_?” she says as her hand purposely lingers over the strands, turning the fingers until the sun rays reflects on the golden bands on her finger, brilliant light splitting through the diamond on top.

Bedelia had never been one to give significance to symbols or props and her fondness for their weddings ring was perplexing to her. No real ceremony, but real rings, a shining emblem of their bond. A normal token marking what was beyond any words. Her attachment seemed to come from the heart, contradicting her logical reasoning. And growing ever so stronger, a perfect reflection of her feelings for the man sitting opposite her.

The beam attracts Hannibal’s eyes, as intended, and he smiles, his gaze soft and warm. His own ring is in place as well, cool metal wrapped around his finger since the moment he replaced his lost one with a new, matching set for the both of them.

“You are correct,” he admits with ease, as if enjoying her being right. The corners of Bedelia’s lips turn up in a silent appreciation. But then Hannibal’s voice trails off, taking some of his thoughts with it.

“What is it then?” she asks, her curiosity now rising from its slumber, the previous confusion long gone.

Hannibal continues to look at her, but hesitates, the rarest of sight, which always indicates that what will follow is close to his heart. And concerns her.

“I want to ensure that everything that belongs to me is yours as well,” another pause as his eyes blink once and move to the side, before falling on her once more, “If something were to happen to me.”

Bedelia’s fingers slip from her hair, her gaze shifts downwards, and her locks follow, shielding her cheek like a golden veil. Her eyes focus on the cup in front of her; the foam and nutmeg cling to the edges like a milky Rorschach test, but she cannot discern any shapes, her mind in sudden disarray. It is not the practical side of his proposition that has wounded her, it is the thought of losing him. Again.

Bedelia had guarded her heart carefully and spent all the years apart trying to mend its breaking structure. But her heart had always had a mind of its own, rather ironic, considering her rational nature, and no amount of time could ease its pain, only causing the cracks to deepen. There was only one thing, _one_ _person_ , that could restore its pulse.

Now it beats with a reinvigorated strength, more open and eager than ever, but it makes it raw and more fragile at the same time. More susceptible to loss.

Suddenly her thoughts are interrupted by a familiar warmth as his hand covers hers. She does not look up, still trying to decipher their future in the used nutmeg grounds.

“I will do anything in my power not to lose you again, Bedelia. _Anything_ ,” his voice is soft but firm, making her heart beat louder, even more unrestrained than before.

She does not respond but looks up to meet his unfeigned face and determined stare. The comfort of his touch begins to calm the uproar within her. Hannibal smiles again, sensing her returned composure.

“Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife, Doctor Du Maurier?” he asks with all seriousness, but there is a well-known twinkle in his eyes, one that carried her away time after time.

Her own smile blooms slowly, like a rarest of the night flowers, and she finds herself lifted by the promise and reassurance in his voice, a delighted thrill of the adventure.

“Yes, I would,” she says, suddenly aware of an unwanted blush threatening to colour her skin.

Hannibal beams more brightly than the sun above them and squeezes her hand in a silent expression of his affection.

“I will be make the arrangements,” he concludes, his tone once again pragmatic as though they have discussed nothing more than another detail of their upcoming travels.

They continue their breakfast in comfortable silence which betrays none of things that have just took place and none of the emotions swelling within them.

 

As another week passes, Hannibal makes no mention of the marriage. Bedelia begins to think it was all just a dream, one that she had never been likely to experience.

It isn’t until the following Monday, when he mentions it during their dinner. The light prawn risotto is followed by a mango sorbet with grilled fruits, an appetizing mixture of temperatures and texture.

“I have arranged a registrar for this Saturday,” Hannibal states while placing the plate in front of her, “The office will be empty then. No unintentional prying eyes.”

He nods in her direction, knowing she would appreciate the extra steps taken to ensure their anonymity, even if he didn’t find them essential. She does.

“That sounds perfect,” she replies with a gentle smile on her lips and dips her spoon in the sorbet, savouring it with gusto.

 

In the morning of the appointed day, Bedelia sits at her vanity, having just finished applying her make-up, and takes off her wedding ring, leaving the diamond one to shine alone on her finger. She places the band in a black velvet box left by Hannibal, with his own ring already there, tucked away safely until it’s called to serve again with a renewed purpose. Bedelia gives them one last glance, two rings sitting silently side by side, then closes the box and seals the image.

She goes to her wardrobe, eyes wandering through various couture, fingers gently skimming the fabrics. It is just the two of them, there is no need to dress for the occasion. She knows any outfit would do and yet none of them does. Suddenly, her hand stops, fingertips finding smooth satin. She takes out the dress and looks at it closely; she does not remember buying it, it feels like it was just waiting there to be found. The expensive charmeuse material is a lustrous shade of pearl, not quite white and not quite grey. Rather perfect, Bedelia concludes with a smile before putting it on.

The low cut neckline accents her delicate collarbones and the dress flows all the way down to the floor, enveloping her curves flawlessly like glossy liquid, shimmering in anticipation. She is so caught in the moment that she does not hear Hannibal entering the room. Only now she notices his reflection in the mirror. Wearing a black tuxedo and a matching bow tie, he stares at her silently, eyes wide and intense, appraising and memorising every detail of her. He has done it countless times, but she feels the blush on her cheeks returning anew.

“Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?” she feels silly saying these cliched words, but it helps her to compose herself before turning to face him. Her eyes immediately fall on the bouquet in his hands.

“I wasn’t certain if you would like to have flowers,” he explains, noticing her stare, his own eyes suddenly turned bashful.

It is a bouquet of irises, her favourites, white and black ones, a composition of perfect equilibrium. Just like the two of them.

“I love them. Thank you,” she smiles and she takes the flowers from his hands, only to reveal a flat, black box with a white ribbon which was hidden behind the posy.

“Hannibal,” her expression and tone grows sterner, “I did not know we were supposed to exchange gifts.”

“We weren’t,” he responds at once, still looking somehow shy and boyish, “I wanted to give you this at a later date, but I thought perhaps you would like to wear it today.”

Her mild discontent gives way to strong curiosity. She knows he always chooses gifts that remind him of her. With pretended reluctance, she accepts the box and opens it to find three vintage hair pins. Shining silver with pointed ends, looking sharp enough to cut, and glistening pearls on the top, hard yet delicate looking.

“They are beautiful,” Bedelia smiles once more. She likes the gift. And she likes the way he sees her.

“May I?” Hannibal asks, taking the pins out, as she knew he would.

Bedelia simply nods and turns to the mirror again. Hannibal gathers her hair to one side and arranges the blonde curls in a loose chignon before securing it with the pins. He delicately slides the last silver stem into her hair and faces the mirror. His arm wraps around her waist and he places a kiss on her shoulder, like an artist signing off his work.

“ _Bellisima_ ,” he whispers softly. They left Italy a long time ago, but the phrase remained, now almost like a spell between them, evoking times of the greatest intimacy and a certain promise of more to come.

Bedelia looks at their reflection; they are the most striking couple, alluring and timeless. As they both commit the perfect frame to memory, she considers this moment, one she had never thought about taking place. One she always knew would. She turns her head to the side and closes her eyes, her forehead resting against his cheek. They linger in the moment, before Hannibal disturbs the stillness with a kiss on her temple.

“The car is waiting.”

 

The streets of the capital are busy, an endless line of vehicles, but they seem to be the only ones going towards the centre and not away from it. It is a hot day and people are eager for the respite of the beach and the ocean.

They arrive at their destination in no time. The car stops in front of a neo-colonial building with white walls and high arches, giving an air of silent authority. They barely reach the second step of the stairs when the front door opens and a jovial, dark haired woman appears. It seems that perfect punctuality is one of the main requirements for people employed by Hannibal.

“ _Buenos d_ _ías, Se_ _ñor Lecter_ ,” she welcomes Hannibal with a smile and it surprises Bedelia to hear his actual name outside the walls of their home.

“ _Buenos d_ _ías, Se_ _ñora Alvarez. Mucho gusto,”_ Hannibal returns the smile and the woman opens the door wide inviting them in.

Once it closes, the heat and the noise of the city are left behind them. The sudden cold of the stone walls elicits goose bumps on Bedelia’s skin and she wraps her hand around Hannibal’s arm as they make their way down the empty corridor. Their steps sound loud and sharp. The silent building feels restless without the rush of the clients coming and going.

The woman leads them to the very last door at the end of the corridor. Once again, the door opens before they reach it, this time revealing a man in his sixties, grey hair and tanned skin, indicating his time must be equally divided between work and leisure.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter,” his voice heavily accented, his tone most friendly, “And this must be your wife.”

“Doctor Du Maurier. And this is Señor Perez,” Hannibal makes the introduction as the man shakes Bedelia’s hand.

“It is a pleasure to have you here. Please come in,” he gestures.

They enter the room, followed by Señora Alvarez. It is not a registry office, as Bedelia expected, but a small, private office; mahogany wood and leather upholstery indicate a level of luxury which accompanies a high rank in the administration. Another man sits in the corner, his face young and his posture eager, an assistant perhaps. _The witnesses_ , obvious realisation crosses Bedelia’s mind.

“Shall we start?” Señor Perez suggests.

Hannibal looks at Bedelia at once and she nods in silent accord, grateful that there is no need for false pleasantries.

They stand in the middle of the room, each person assuming their position, like actors in a play. As the registrar begins with stating the purpose of their gathering and well-known words echo against the somber walls, Bedelia is once again reminded of a rehearsed spectacle. But she is acutely aware that they are not playing. She looks at Hannibal, staring back at her with a sweet ardour that makes her heart flutter.

She should be nervous, but she isn’t.

Their eyes do not leave each other as the man proceeds with the declarations. A faintest of smiles pulls at her lips as they state their legal freedom to marry each other. They live beyond the grasp of the law, but none of that makes them unfit to share this moment. A moment that has finally come.

“I call upon these persons here present to witness that, I, Bedelia Du Maurier, take thee, Hannibal Lecter, to be my lawful wedded husband,” she repeats the sentence as instructed and the room fades into grey oblivion, further with each word, leaving only her and the man she is committing herself to.

“I call upon these persons here present to witness that, I, Hannibal Lecter, take thee, Bedelia Du Maurier, to be my lawful wedded wife,” he speaks slowly, his voice more heavily accented than usual, betraying the intensity of his feelings. He savours each word as if it were the finest dish he had ever tasted.

“Do you have the rings?” Señor Perez asks and Hannibal reaches into his pocket to retrieve the velvet box. The young man moves swiftly to take Bedelia’s flowers; she wonders in how many out of hours ceremonies he had assisted.

They both take the rings and a pleasant wave of memories washes over Bedelia. It feels familiar, _right_ , to slip the ring back on Hannibal’s finger. She knows he shares the same sentiment as he gently places her own ring where it belongs.

“It gives me the greatest honour and privilege to announce that you are now husband and wife together,” the registrar states with a wide smile, “You may kiss the bride.”

Before she gets a chance to ponder this public display of affection, Hannibal leans in at once and presses his lips against hers. It is a gentle kiss, but she can feel his affection pouring through the gesture and has to refrain herself from sighing.

When they part, Señor Perez reaches to his desk and presents them with a black leather cover. He opens it to reveal the marriage certificate, the last step to complete the ceremony.

 It is a more elegant document that Bedelia expected, delicate gold frame surrounding the text, no doubt Hannibal’s doing. Their full names are already in place, printed in black, with the document’s name above them, shining crimson red. The ink reminds Bedelia of blood and she is certain Hannibal would not hesitate to sign this with his own blood. But they have sealed their union that way more than once, the ink will suffice today, she reflects as she reaches for the fountain pen placed next to the sheet.

As the pen touches the paper, she tries to remember the last time she wrote her name, _her real name._ During her lecture tour probably, but she might as well have put Lydia Fell, the pretence of the pretence left her name without meaning.

_I am not Lydia Fell. I am Bedelia Du Maurier,_ she signs the document without hesitation. She has never been more certain of herself than she is in this moment. She watches, mesmerised, as the ink dries, embedding her name.

Hannibal’s eyes follow hers as he stares at her signature. She hands the pen over to him and he places his own name without delay, an elegant cursive flowing under his fingers. He gently blows on the paper, wanting the ink to dry faster or perhaps ensuring his name wouldn’t suddenly vanish.

Bedelia reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing it firmly; the final seal to their new marriage.

 

Much later, as the day draws to a close, the sun still radiates with golden heat, unwilling to give way to the night. Bedelia’s dress and Hannibal’s tuxedo rest lifelessly on the bedroom’s floor, having already played their role, now silently observe as the amber light permeates the air, rays lengthening endlessly as they climb the ivory coloured walls. The black cover holding their marriage certificate sits on top of the vanity, guarded by the silver points of her hair pins.

Bedelia stretches her hand out across the soft sheets of their bed and watches as the rings on her finger catch the light seeping through the window. She knows it is merely a trick of the evening sun, but they seems to shine brighter, with revived joy.

A warm torso presses against her back and Hannibal’s hand reaches out, threading his fingers through hers, their rings clinking together. She likes that sound, a delicate melody of their union, and suspects he does as well.

She turns in his arms and meets his smiling lips. He has not stopped smiling since they left the registry office. It makes her wonder how long he had waited for this moment.

She smiles too, stretching her lips against his in a tender kiss. Somehow, she had waited for it as well.

“Are you going to call me Mrs Lecter now?” she asks as her fingers idly brush through his hair.

“I will call you whatever you want me to call you,” he responds at once, planting a kiss on her neck to mark his words. Bedelia sighs softly.

“Can I call you Mr Du Maurier then?” she teases him further.

“Of course, you can,” his eager response is met with an eyebrow raise and a smirk.

“However-” he begins but hesitates.

“Yes?” she urges him on with her lips caressing his jawline.

“I would very much like to call you Countess,” he concludes and his gaze turns playful again.

An instant shiver of pleasure trickles down her spine and she presses herself closer to his body. Her undone heart beats louder, straining against her rib cage without fear, imbued with excitement.

Their adventure together has just begun.

**Author's Note:**

> I loved writing this story, but was also very nervous about getting it right. Bedelia and Hannibal were already committed to each other, so writing about them getting legally married was a tricky one. I wanted to present the actual ceremony, but not having it sound like a plain description from a manual, and I wanted to have them say the words, which I hope wasn't too much. They sign the certificate and not the register because ~aesthetics. But fear not, they are 100% legally married. :)


End file.
